Disappearance
by corneroffandom
Summary: First White Collar fic, any errors I apologize for. Neal has gone missing, Peter isn't sure what to believe.


"Just give up on Caffrey," Hughes says stubbornly. "You know he's gone, Burke. We have too many other cases to focus on, we need to pull more manpower from this thing..."

"Fine," Peter says, a dangerous glint to his eyes. "He's out there and I'm gonna find him and drag him back by his hat, alone if I have to."

"Burke," the older man says warningly. "It's not a suggestion, it's an order. Let it _go._ We have too many cases to focus on already."

That was over two weeks ago, Peter reflects as he sits at his desk. Neal's been a ghost for well over three weeks, avoiding law enforcement even easier than he did six years ago. Seems his time inside the FBI gave him the last bits of knowledge he needed to keep them off his trail totally. The thought makes Peter sick; they had been played so completely.

At least, he thinks. At first, there was a possibility that Neal hadn't left on his own-- June had told Peter how he had ran out of her house late one night, stuttering out a story about some case going south and needing to talk to Peter. Considering Neal was a wordsmith, never one prone to stuttering, this led Peter to believe something was wrong.

Obviously, Neal had never _gone_ to Peter, instead disappearing without a trace, his tracker somehow falling off the grid completely. After this, a security guard at a bank came forward, explaining how he had seen a young man with thick brown hair lurking around an art museum just before an expensive artifact went missing. Showing him a picture of Neal confirmed Peter's worse fear.

Somewhere deep inside, Peter holds out hope but most of his fellow agents aren't so loyal to Neal, immediately turning against the conman and beginning an intense manhunt. The more time passed, the more he wasn't sure what to believe.

However he still had inklings of uncertainty, mostly from that first crime scene-- pictures of a streak of blood across the vault floor holding the most pricy pieces taunt him whenever he looks at them. A quick sample had been taken and tested just to confirm what he suspected-- it had been Neal's. Caffrey was a master at what he did, unfortunately, and it wasn't like him to get hurt or leave evidence like that behind, so Peter's certainty wasn't a hundred percent, and he secretly breathes a sigh of relief when Hughes cuts back on the manhunt for Caffrey, other crime waves needing their attention more, especially with the holidays looming closer. He wants to continue looking for the conman but he doesn't need a triggerhappy, eager to please, new recruit to come across him first. He ends up having to do it on his own personal time with little to no help, as Hughes focuses less and less on finding Neal and more and more on other cases popping up around the city and the other agents follow his lead.

He scrubs a hand over his face, unable to stop thinking about Neal. Despite his anger at the man, he can't shake the feeling that the conman had gotten himself into some really bad trouble that not even Peter could get him out of easily-- something they all were missing among the puzzle pieces scattered around.

He slams his fist against the desk, unwittingly knocking some papers off of his desk... including the picture of Caffrey's blood. His heart stutters as he catches a glimpse of it while leaning over to pick it and the others up. "Oh-- son of a," he breathes in, awkwardly reaching out for the picture, which is upside down. The answer's been before his very nose for _weeks._

-------

"You're certain," Hughes says stubbornly, his untrusting eyes locked on Burke. "If you're wrong, Burke--"

"No, I'm not wrong. Look, he was trying to write something in the blood." Peter holds the picture out, turning it just so so the pattern is obvious.

"Ok, what is it?"

Peter laughs in disbelief, almost giddy now that he's figured out what's been sticking with him for nearly two weeks. "Stupid damn punk, it's Morton's signature."

"What? Who's Morton?"

"This criminal that I put away, a few years back," Peter says in a rush. "One of my first cases after Neal. Do you remember?"

Hughes squints before nodding. "Somewhat. So this is his signature?" he mutters. "That Caffrey..."

Peter calms, not really interested in hearing what his superior is about to say about his partner. "We need to hurry on this, who knows what this guy is doing with Caffrey."

------------

The search is quick and intense, all manpower they can spare from the other cases fanning out across New York. They revisit the art museum, Peter questions June once more, they check in with the security guard, a few techs even go over the evidence. No stone is left unturned as they struggle to pin down Morton's last known whereabouts.

El visits Peter and hugs him from behind as he reclines back into her arms, some of the stress easing at her touch. "It's not your fault, you know," she says quietly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Neal won't hold it against you for long for being suspicious, the initial evidence was overwhelming."

"I know," he mutters. "Just, I knew deep inside something else was going on. I could've tried harder." His fingers graze the picture that led him to the realization it was Morton and El's hand rests on his, stopping his nervous movement.

"You did your best, and now you're going to find him, it'll be fine," she says with the usual trust she always puts in him. "He might be annoyed for awhile but he'll understand. Just give him time."

"What would I do without you?" he asks, turning around to hug her tightly. She smiles against him but doesn't answer, the unspoken _You'll never have to worry about that,_ hanging around them.

----------------

Neal's not sure how long he's been held here, his wrists worn from struggling against the ropes binding them tightly together. Days seem to meld together, the small, grimy windows on either side of the room not helping him in telling when the sun sets and rises, his odd sleep schedule making things even worse.

He's not been out of this building since that one time when he purposely messed up the art museum's vault, smearing his blood all over the place and pissing his captors off in the classic Neal Caffrey way. If they guessed what he was trying to do, he couldn't tell, but considering they left the blood where it was, it either meant they had no clue or they weren't worried about the FBI tracking them, which meant very bad things for him.

Every day or so, a quiet guy a good deal bigger than Neal enters with food and some water, nothing exactly tasty but enough to keep him alive. He would think it was a blessing if he knew _why_ they were keeping him alive. No matter how many times he talks to the big guy, he never gets a word out of him so after awhile he gives up and just watches him in case there's some weakness that he can use to his advantage. It gets harder as more time passes and he grows more and more dehydrated, blood loss from various injuries affecting him, his eyes harder and harder to focus.

_Dammit... Peter..._

------

The security guard looks a little pensive as Peter stares at him, his gaze piercing. "Did you see what they drove off in?"

"No," he says boredly. "I already answered that kid's questions yesterday."

Peter bristles at his tone, shaking his head. "Listen, I don't care what an inconvenience this is for you. My partner's missing and I need to find him, I think what you witnessed might help with this. You'd be surprised what you could remember with a little prodding."

Reluctantly the guard stands a little straighter, putting all his focus on Peter. "Fine, Special Agent. What do you want me to try to remember?"

"The brown haired man you said you saw lurking around-- how did he appear?"

"I was across the street, couldn't really see him," the guard says with a shrug. "He was holdin' his arm close to his ribs though, I remember that much. Looked a little shifty. That's why I looked at him as much as I did, just seemed a little weird to me. He was gone within five minutes, I hadn't seen him since."

Peter hums, thinking. "I see. Ok, if you think of anything else, let me know, huh? Here's my phone number," he says, handing over a card obviously prepared for this very moment with his office number on one side and cell phone scribbled beneath it.

He barely hears the guard's agreement to this as he heads back to his car, settling in behind the wheel. He remembers driving to the office in this with Neal, who was amazed by the new features that had sprung up during his time in jail. He shakes his head, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. "Hang on, Neal."

---------

Neal swallows desperately as the larger man holds the glass of water up to his lips, waiting patiently as he drinks. _If the boss didn't insist this guy stay tied up all the time, I'd be able to untie him and not have to frickin babysit him_ quite _so much..._ he thinks aggravatedly, bored of holding his arm in one position as the conman drains the liquid. _As if this guy could do very much. He looks like he could be knocked over by a blast of wind right now._ He struggles not to laugh at his own languid thoughts, noticing that finally Neal's drained the glass. He pulls it away and walks back to the table, settling down silently.

Morton's an intense individual, very rich and powerful and he's promised Conrad Livinski ten percent off what they got from the art museum heist if he just keeps Neal in one place for a little while. What exactly Morton has against the man across the room, Conrad doesn't know but it doesn't matter to him as he boredly shifts, watching as Neal settles in deeper in the chair, coughing slightly. _Don't tell me he's getting sick,_ he thinks unhappily. Neal wasn't supposed to be hurt, at least not on Conrad's watch, not that Conrad was happy to come back sometimes and find the guy bashed up... had even taken to cleaning him up a little bit here and there when Neal was so out of it that he couldn't focus on anything.

Conrad doesn't like seeing people hurt or sick, he just hit a rough streak and needed some money more than he needed a clear conscience, in these times it seemed to be a common occurrence, so when he met Morton, who promised easy money and a place to stay in the meanwhile, it seemed a match made in Heaven until he saw Neal for the first time with a wide gash across his right arm, still oozing blood, and a black eye. "Hey!" he had cried. "You didn't tell me he was gonna be injured."

"Shut up," Morton had told him bitingly. "He's not that bad, he just needs some time to sleep. Which we'll give him plenty of," he continues with a sneer, throwing some rope at Conrad. "Tie him up."

Conrad is about to question this when he sees Morton's narrowed eyes and hastens to do so, putting on a show by tying Neal up tightly until Morton nods in acceptance and leaves without another word. And thus here they are, Conrad watching as Neal gets worse and Neal trying to figure a way out while waiting for Peter.

_Sorry, man, _he thinks with a frown as Neal fights against sleep and loses.

--------

Peter scans all the nearby security footage, even that of the bank from across the street. Nothing worthwhile sticks out at him and he groans, throwing the remote across the room before rubbing a hand through his hair in aggravation. "Dammit, Neal, why do you always get yourself in these situations?" He jerks as his cell phone goes off in his pocket and he digs it out, blinking at the odd number. "Detective Burke." He straightens up. "Really? ... I see." He listens for a minute longer. "Hm. Ok, we'll look into it. Thank you." He hangs up and quickly grabs his jacket. "Jones!"

"Yes?" the loyal man asks, staring up at his senior agent.

"There's been some suspicious activity at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city," he says.

"What does that have to do with the FBI, sir?"

"NYPD scanned it, found something they think we might recognize." He looks drained all of a sudden. "They found a jacket there, a Devore."

"Isn't that Neal Caffrey's, sir?"

"Yes it is. I want a few of our guys out there, looking for anything that the NYPD may miss." Peter's trust in the NYPD has always been a wee bit shaky, made only worse by their bursting into the heist that Neal was involved in months ago. What a mess that was, with Interpol involved as well. Leave it to Neal to always get into the worst situations.

"On it, sir."

-----------

Neal's body feels cold without his jacket and it's only when he slumps forward that he realizes he's untied, the blood circulating through his tingling hands and legs once more. "What..."

"You've been moved," Morton says. Neal stiffens as soon as he sees the man, his eyes widening. "You recognize me," he says with a smirk.

"You were in the same high security prison I was in," he says thoughtfully, struggling to remember back that far through the fog in his mind. "But you died. Right?"

He barks a laugh. "Is that the rumor those brainless inmates spread about me? My plan worked better than I thought, then. No, no. I faked an illness that made them take me to the infirmary. Much less security out that way. Well, with enough money offered, that is." He eyes his fingers thoughtfully before wandering back to Neal. "We had to move you, people were getting suspicious and had notified the NYPD... I'm not ready for my fun to end just yet. So we've brought you here."

Neal struggles to look around and finds himself in an abandoned looking farmhouse, dust and grime all over the place. "What's this place?"

"Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know about it." Morton shrugs noncommitedly and leans over. "This is the place Peter Burke arrested me at." He pauses in talking and leans over, digging his finger in the partially healed slash across Neal's arm, causing the conman to cry out as his skin splits once more and blood drips down his already stained sleeve. "Tsk, you know. I should thank you really, I wasn't sure how to show Burke that I had you-- and that it was _me._ Then you cut yourself and it just took shape from there..."

"What did you do?" Neal wheezes around the pain, grunting as Morton pulls his hand away and stares at the dripping liquid spreading down his fingers.

"Well, you know better than anyone how we all have our personal signatures." He smiles. "It was simple to draw mine in your blood..."

Neal shakes his head, the wooziness getting worse. "Peter won't fall for that-- he'll see through it, know it's a trap."

"Maybe, maybe not. If he does, he'll be just in time to see his favorite conman bleed from somewhere else..." He smiles, running a hand along Neal's throat, chortling a bit as the conman twitches away from his touch, blue eyes burning with warning or a fever, or both. "If he doesn't, oh well... I have all the time in the world." As if to punctuate his words, he pulls a knife from his pocket and begins sliding it up Neal's cheek, just deep enough to leave a stinging cut, blood dripping sluggishly down his chin.

--------

Peter is pacing back and forth outside the warehouse, waiting for the initial report.

"Caffrey was definitely there," is the first thing he hears when his phone rings. Jones sounds a little frantic. "More blood samples were taken. Sir--"

Burke pinches his nose and looks down at the jacket he's holding on tightly to. "Got it, Jones. Thanks." He snaps the phone shut a little harder than he needed to and looks up, fingers pinching at the collar of the jacket. "Neal, where the hell are you now?" El's words _He won't hold it against you_ comes back to him and he shakes his head, at this moment Neal's not where his focus needs to be-- it needs to be on Morton.

Peter's good at what he does because he's good at reading people and right now he needs to read Morton, not Neal. Three years can change most people-- _Though it didn't really change Neal,_ he thinks-- and there's a piece of the puzzle right there. Neal had seemed unchanged from when Peter last saw him in that courtroom years and years ago when he was finally sentenced... so what if Morton went through the same kind of freezeframe? What if...

It hits Peter like a lightning bolt, where Morton would be holding Neal at. He's in his car within minutes, calling for backup via the radio as he peels away from the warehouse like a madman.

-----------

Neal finds, strangely enough, that he doesn't like not being tied up, it just means that Morton is all the more assured that Neal won't get away, unlike at the warehouse. He can go where he wants, with Conrad or the less friendly and even bigger guy that makes Conrad look like a harmless kitten following him everywhere, but there's nothing to do, nothing to see. The doors are all locked, the rooms that he can get into are all devoid of furniture or anything that would prove that people once lived here. He doesn't like it or what it implies. It makes prison look like a welcoming, warm home, which is something he thought was impossible.

After he bores of wandering-- which only takes about ten minutes-- he returns to the main room, where Morton shuffles through paperwork, an amused glimmer in his eyes as Neal settles in an uncomfortable chair across from him, running a hand through his hair.

"And now we wait," Morton says smugly.

"Peter isn't going to fall for this," Neal responds, barely looking up as Morton leans closer, the papers sliding around in his grip. "He's too smart for that."

"Well, you would think so, hm, considering he's the one who captured both of us? But people can surprise you, I definitely expect to be surprised by Burke's random lapse of judgment. For whatever reason, it seems he likes you, kid. It could make even the brightest man screw up." A vicious grin spreads across the man's face as Neal stares ahead stonily, fists clenching around the armrest of the chair he's sitting in. "If you had anything I'd be interested in, I'd bet you he'll come through those doors any minute now, but, well, you're not that fortunate."

Neal swallows thickly, his eyes glancing briefly to the windows. He doesn't want Peter to risk his life or the life of anyone else but this stalemate they appear to be in is also aggravating beyond belief, he'd almost rather Morton just kill him now than remain sitting here for much longer. His body is nearly trembling with nervous energy and he can't focus on any one thought which makes even trying to con his way out of this nearly impossible. He knows more of Morton's legend than of any other con, except for perhaps Tulane, but unlike Tulane, who he appreciates for how smooth the man operates, Morton is known as a cold, heartless monster who frauds anyone and anything as long as it entices him.

Jail obviously made that black streak even darker, which of course led them here.

-------

Peter motions to the agents lingering behind him, making sure to keep the farmhouse in his view as he stealthily passes through the trees, gun held loosely at his side. It makes sense that Morton would bring Neal here-- most conmen are a bit fond of dramatic shows and holding a hostage in this place where he knows Peter would definitely look is about as dramatic as it gets.

"Go, go," he hisses as a few more head in front of him, quickly getting behind trees and preparing themselves for whatever might follow. He quickly reaches the edge of the tree line, making sure he's covered sufficently by the foilage. He feels a sense of deja vu as he remembers being in nearly this exact same spot the last time he caught Morton.

Life is funny this way.

-----------

Neal is still glancing over at the window now and again when Morton leans forward, glancing warningly over at Conrad and the other man. Apparently it's a signal because the two men slip out of the room, danger and motivation fueling their steps.

"Seems your babysitter is here," Morton says easily as if asking about the weather.

Neal shakes his head. "Those two against the FBI? They won't last five minutes."

"You'd be surprised," the conman says coldly, a pleased smirk on his face as Neal stiffens, the sounds of gunfire echoing just outside the front door. "Seems the fun has begun." He reaches into his jacket and draws out a pistol, shining it thoughtlessly against his pantleg. "Now we wait."

Neal hates waiting.

---------

Peter isn't surprised when gunfire starts spraying from the farmhouse, less so when he finds that he can't get a good read on the people actually doing the firing. As agents scatter, some trying to get an aim on the gunmen, he stays where he's at, trying to figure out a path into the house without getting himself killed. He looks up and watches in horror as one of his men fall, landing face first in the mud. He could be dead, it's impossible to tell from this angle. He curses and moves behind another tree, with less coverage but a better viewpoint of the house.

"Sir!" one of the nearest men call to him, eyes widening as another of his comrades is struck and falls, groaning. "What do we do?!"

"Stay behind the trees, and cover me," Peter orders and heads further to the left, finding more coverage behind a sizeable birch tree. He tunes out as the other feds fire wildly at the side of the house, inching ever closer to the porch. He knows it's a trap, not so far beyond gone at the need to find Neal that he doesn't still know what Morton's doing, but right now, he can almost sense Neal's fear despite the distance between him and trap or no, he'll save his partner. He's put too much work into getting the kid to walk on the straight and narrow to give up now.

He knows somehow that Morton wants him alive, cares more about a final, impressive show off than just spilling Peter's blood so he breaks the treeline, leaving the gun fight behind him and making it quickly for the porch just in case. The door, unsurprisingly, is unlocked and he tentatively enters, his gun held at the ready.

"Ah, Peter," Morton greets him immediately, his voice coming from the gloomy interior of the dusty room. "Kind of you to finally join us. How many of your agents have been struck down already?"

He doesn't answer, angrily entering the room completely. "Where's Neal?" he demands, aiming his gun right at the blase looking criminal.

"Well, that is the million dollar question, isn't it?" he says calmly, standing up. "Caffrey is... interesting, to say the least. A supposedly reformed conman, workin' for the FBI and all. It's very... intriguing."

"I'm only going to ask once, where is Neal?" he asks, a dangerous tone to his voice.

Morton sighs. "He's more fun than you are. I suppose that's why you work as a team, hm? Opposites attracting and all... oh well." He enters a sideroom and tugs Neal out by very tight binds wrapped around his wrists. A gag completes the hostage fare, so the only way Peter can read the former conman is by his eyes, which are wide and looking a little freaked out, among other things, but all in all, the kid seems intact.

"Let him go," Peter orders lowly, his fingers twitching briefly against his gun. Neal keeps gazing down at it briefly before returning his eyes to him, a kind of trust there that makes him feel almost nauseous.

"Oh Peter," Morton says thoughtlessly, his grip tightening on Neal's wrists. "I never did understand why your type always, _always_ made weak demands like that and actually expect a favorable resolution."

Peter shrugs, eyes still trained on the man as he walks behind Neal, wrenching his wrists once more before releasing them and doing something that makes Neal gasp vaguely, struggling to keep his emotions under check. "Neal? "You alright?" he asks gruffly, trying also to keep the dread and fear out of his tone.

He forces a twitchy nod, the only way he can say he's ok, like it's the hardest thing he's ever done, despite the cool steel of a knife pressed against his spine.

"For now," Morton says with a cold shrug, tugging Neal along with him as they skirt over towards the door, Neal's eyes pingponging between the exit and Peter's steadily held weapon, shining slightly in the dim mid-afternoon sunlight streaming through the dreary, stained drapes.

"Don't move," Peter says warningly, the gun pointed directly at Morton's head, waiting for a clear shot when Neal's not right in his way. "Not another step."

"Burke, we've discussed this. You have nothing I want and I have him," he jerks Neal once more, almost slamming his face into the doorjam, "so I'm the one with the advantage. If you want him to live, you'll stop with these pointless warnings." He purposely raises his hand, makes sure Peter sees the knife, then digs it back against Neal's skin-- not enough to draw blood, but enough to make him stiffen.

Peter looks beyond pissed now, Neal absorbs the look on his partner's face for a moment before forcing his eyes closed, knowing that this standoff can't last forever. Morton shifts behind him, keeping Neal between him and the FBI agent. He can feel his breath on his neck, which makes his skin crawl uncomfortably.

He's never exactly sure what happens that leads to this but he does hear the gunshot and a rush of air next to his cheek. When he regains focus on reality around him, he's on the floor and Peter is kneeling near him, a hand on his upper arm, shaking him. The gag is gone. "Neal! Dammit, Caffrey answer me!"

He blinks tiredly before forcing a smile. "You worried about me, Peter?" It's a stupid question, he knew from the moment he saw Peter that a rigid kind of fear lingered beneath the man's every move, tempered his every comment to Morton, but he just needs to say something, try to bring a kind of levity to the situation.

"Idiot," Peter says but his hand remains on his arm. Neal's not sure if it's meant to steady him or Peter, or both, but he's relieved for the point of contact.

-----------

Morton's body is taken care of, the proper reports filed for this kind of thing, and Peter cards his fingers through his hair as he looks over at Neal. The kid's a little pale and a lot bruised but he's still insisted on coming in today, a mere three days after being held hostage. Peter thinks it's because June's spending the week at a spa upstate but he doesn't vocalize these thoughts, secretly relieved the kid's nearby so he can keep an eye on him.

Revenge can be a tricky thing and a part of him wants to go through every solved case he's ever been involved in, make sure something like this never happens again, but Neal is looking tired and he can't focus on the case files before him. "Neal?"

"Uh huh?" the conman asks, running his fingers over the nearest file, his own eyes unfocused as he tries to read it-- or look like he's trying to, at any rate.

"Let's get out of here for awhile, see if we can find something to eat." Peter's suggestion is rewarded with a surprised quirk of Neal's lips as he looks up. "We deserve a break," is all he says in answer of the unspoken question.

"Sounds good to me," the younger man agrees readily enough, collecting his ever-present hat from the surface of the table and fixing it just so upon his head with a sauve grin. Peter rolls his eyes. "What?!" he asks, innocence and charm just oozing from his very pores.

Peter sighs and lets the many possible retorts slip past him, choosing instead to tap Neal on the shoulder, careful not to aggravate the injuries that Morton's men-- Ronald and Conrad, both currently enjoying individual cells in the state pen-- had caused. "Let's go."


End file.
